


but i have seen the same (i know the shame in your defeat)

by voidify



Series: sigh no more (valvert vignettes) [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (i.e. the 1832 scenes don’t depict much beyond the point of canon divergence but I ship valvert), Alternate Universe: Canon Divergence, Gen, Gratuitous Parallels, Javert Lives, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Slash, Suicide Attempt, alternating scenes between past and present, and also this is a prequel to 2 other fics where he's alive, but I the author say he survives, i just love this one parallel so much ok, it ends on an uncertain note of javert's survival, so rest assured he survives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-11-09 05:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17995823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidify/pseuds/voidify
Summary: Mercy can do strange things to a man.(A pair of parallel crises— whose conclusions might not have been quite as perpendicular as one would think.)[Now with cover art for derailment day 2019!]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As many of you know, I love the soliloquy parallel a lot. (For the uninitiated, that’s the parallel between Valjean’s crisis after the Bishop’s kindness that leads him to break parole, and Javert’s crisis after Valjean’s kindness that leads to his canon death. It’s most noticeable in the musical, since the crises’ songs, the “soliloquies”, have the same melody and some shared lyrics, but the parallel has been around since the brick.) This fic is a love letter to it.
> 
> Also, I finally figured out how to write oneshots longer than 2k! 
> 
> This turned out pretty brick-based in some ways, because it turned out easier to make Maximum Parallels with a brickier timeline, but I never intended to make it 100% based on any particular version of canon, so don’t expect complete brick accuracy.
> 
> As this has a title from The Cave (great song, valvert energy, etc etc), and the 1832 scenes are a compatible timeline to my other two Mumford-lyric-titled post-seine oneshots, the three fics are now organised in an ao3 series, in chronological order. This series may be updated if I write more fics meeting its criteria.
> 
> Thanks to onegaymore for beta reading!

_Paris, 1832._

Barricades. Muffled gunfire, muffled shouting. 

Javert did not bother straining to distinguish the words— there was no point; he had already been captured. That damn gamin had recognised him, and now he was tied in the corner of the Corinthe, awaiting his fate. 

The rebel leader, Enjolras, refused to kill him just yet, no matter how much Javert requested it; the boy did not wish to waste ammunition, and was not willing to kill with a knife. It was no matter. The insurgents would kill him eventually, the second that it became apparent they would lose. He might have to wait here for a few more hours, or a day, having to listen to the drunkard in the other corner alternate between snoring and senseless rambling— but it would only be a delay of the inevitable. 

This was where Javert would die; of that, he was certain.

***

_Seventeen years earlier, and six hundred kilometres away…_

A chilly autumn night. The sound of a dog barking in the distance. 

Jean Valjean wandered the streets of Digne. The town was asleep, but he was not; he had no home, and no inn would take his money. He cursed the world, the law, the damn yellow passport that made him worse than a dog in the eyes of all the townsfolk. He saw a bench. He may as well sleep there, he supposed; it would be no less comfortable than the plank on which he had slept for the last nineteen years. 

Perhaps he would starve, or freeze to death. No employer would pay him fairly, when they knew he had been to prison— once his earnings from those nineteen years ran out, he would either die, or he would steal again, and go back to prison, this time for life. 

Of those, death would be the better option.

***

But then, there was Valjean.

When Valjean walked into the Corinthe, Javert could not muster an iota of surprise at the fact that the other man had come to the barricade. Of course. Of course _he_ would be here, among the traitors. He _wouldn’t_ have anything to live for except the hope of a world where men like him might be treated with leniency— why would he resist the urge to come to the place where he could die fighting for this futile aim?

The two men locked eyes for a moment.

Neither of them spoke.

Valjean was the first to look away, when he turned back to exit the building.

So, both the hunter and his quarry would die here, tonight. What a grand coincidence.

***

But then, there was Bishop Myriel.

By some miracle, the bench Valjean had chosen was right by a window of Myriel’s residence, and he happened to come outside upon seeing a man sleeping there.

“Excuse me, Monsieur—”

Valjean had been half-asleep; he flinched as he was suddenly woken by the words, but Myriel was not offended by the reflex— instead, he smiled. 

“As I was saying, Monsieur— there is no need for you to sleep out here in the cold! You are my guest; come inside.”

Valjean did not know how to respond to this kindness— or to the formal address. He fumbled with his rucksack for his papers, attempted to show the Bishop that he was a convict, unworthy of such things, but Myriel would hear none of it. 

“Really, that is no matter. Please, do come inside, sir— I have plenty of food and wine, as well as a spare room for you to sleep. For as long as I have means to help, nobody will starve in this town.”

Valjean could not deny that he was hungry. And if this man genuinely wanted to help him, for whatever strange reason that might be, why would Valjean refuse it? There was no room for pride in a wretched man like him.

In the Bishop’s house Valjean drank good wine, and ate good food. But all the while, it was so impossible to ignore that the plates, the cups, the knife and fork, that it was all made of silver— and surely worth ten times all the money Valjean had earned in the galleys. 

In between bites, Valjean babbled his entire life story to the Bishop— Faverolles, Jeanne, the nephews and nieces, the loaf of bread, the escape attempts, the nineteen years— and was met with nods of acknowledgement at every point. 

But even when Myriel showed Valjean to the guest-room, Valjean could not stop thinking about that silver. He could live for years on the proceeds from it. He lay awake in the bed, unable to sleep— as much from the unfamiliar sensation of sleeping on such a soft surface, as from the incessant thoughts of the life the silver might be able to finance.

In the middle of the night, Valjean got out of bed.

And before he knew it, he had shoved the silver in his rucksack, and he was running, down the street, running, away from the house, running, he heard a shout, running, oh God, he had made a terrible mistake, running— 

***

Javert was beginning to zone out again, but then, he heard a conversation. Valjean had apparently done the insurgents a great service, and the leader congratulated him— and Valjean asked to be allowed to kill Javert.

Of _course_.

This would be a fitting end for Javert. He did not make any attempt to resist, as Valjean led him to the adjoining alley. He had accepted his fate.

***

Valjean did not get far at all, before local gendarmes spotted him and apprehended him. He gave some half-baked lie about it being a gift from the Bishop (if it was in the man’s character to give food and shelter to a convict, then it might be halfway plausible that he would give silver too), but it was not believed in the slightest. 

They dragged him back to the Bishop’s door; half the town had come out of their houses with their candles to see the source of the commotion.

Despite all his strength, Valjean could barely find it in him to resist. It was inevitable; he would be humiliated for his theft and his lie, and return to Toulon for the rest of his years. He had accepted his fate. 

***

Javert was ready to die at Valjean’s hands. There was a moment of confusion when Valjean put away his gun, but then, he took out a knife. Javert laughed.

“A knife! That suits _you_ better.”

So this was how Javert’s life would end. He bared the skin of his throat, closed his eyes, held his breath— 

But he waited, and there was no feeling of knife against flesh, no sharp moment of pain, no sweet release of oblivion. Javert waited, waited, waited, and then, when he dared to open his eyes again— 

Valjean was before him. “You are free.”

Javert realised that Valjean had not cut his throat— but instead, the ropes binding him.

Javert stumbled back; he only just managed to stop himself from falling to the ground. _What? This has to be some kind of trick._

“If I come out of this alive, you can find me under the name Fauchelevent, at Rue de l’Homme-Armé, number seven. I will not resist arrest.”

Javert could not shake the sense that this was a joke, a cat playing with its prey. “Stop the games. Kill me.” His voice should not have trembled. It should not have sounded like begging.

“No. I may be a thief, but I am not a murderer. Leave this place; if I survive, you have my address.”

“But—”

“Go!”

Javert left the alley. He heard a shot in the air, and Valjean’s voice saying ‘it is done’, and cheers in the voices of the insurgents. He did not turn back. 

***

Myriel opened the door, dressed in his nightshirt— to the sight of Valjean clapped in irons, three gendarmes restraining him, and half the street’s residents clustered around.

“Monseigneur! We found this man,” the gendarme shoved Valjean forward; Valjean fell to the ground, “running down the street with your silver.” He pulled the silver out of Valjean’s confiscated rucksack. “He had the nerve to say you gave it to him!”

This was it. This was the moment when Valjean would pay for his stupidity, for double-crossing the only man who had shown him kindness in two decades. 

Valjean could not bear to look up— but if he had, he would have seen the most curious smile form on Myriel’s face. “He told you the truth, then.”

 _What?_ Valjean looked up, confused. Was this some kind of joke?

“Let me see…” Myriel shuffled over to where the gendarme stood, and took the rucksack containing the silver from his hands. “Ah, only the tableware? My brother, do you not remember that I gave you the candlesticks as well? You should not have left so early; you left the best of my gifts behind!”

This had to be a trick. But Valjean did not dare to speak. 

The Bishop went inside for a moment, and came out holding two silver candlesticks, which he placed in the bag.

“Well, you should release him, now— given this was all a misunderstanding.”

The gendarmes were perturbed at this turn of events— but it seemed that in this town Myriel’s word was good, as one of them went to unlock the manacles on Valjean’s wrists.

As Myriel handed Valjean the rucksack, and the gendarmes wandered off gossiping about Myriel, and the crowd began to dissipate at the unsatisfying conclusion of the spectacle, Myriel spoke to Valjean. There was a jovial smile on the Bishop’s round face. “You could have stayed in the guest-room for the rest of the night, you know. If you’d left in the morning, people might have understood that the silver was a gift, instead of making assumptions. But— regardless of whether you leave now or later…” 

He looked directly into Valjean’s eyes.

“Do not forget, I gave you this silver so you could become an honest man. I have bought your soul for God.”

***

Javert’s legs carried him back to the station. He did not think. He refused to think about what had happened. He changed back into his trusty greatcoat, dressed the most pertinent of his wounds, and requested further work. If Javert’s mind was ever in turmoil, he always tried to throw himself back into his work to occupy it, and now was no exception. 

Apparently, somebody had given a tip about a thief, possibly linked to the Patron-Minette, profiting off the chaotic state of the city following the rebellion. He went to the thief’s reported location by the quickest route, but by the time he arrived, the scrawny little man he was chasing was only a few metres from a sewer entrance— that he promptly disappeared into.

Damn. Still, Javert knew where these sewers opened; he would just have to wait there.

…And Javert’s luck had not, apparently, improved. Another man came out of the sewers, carrying a young man’s corpse, before the intended mark could emerge— and this man just had to be _Valjean_.

Javert trained his pistol on Valjean. His hand should not have trembled. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t shoot you where you stand.” His voice should not have, either.

“The boy—”

Javert interrupted, barking a laugh; it was all he could do. “The corpse?”

“He isn’t dead, not quite— and my daughter loves him. I need to take him to his grandfather’s house. After that, you can do what you wish with me.”

And Javert should not have agreed, but he did— and even as he stepped into the fiacre and gestured for Valjean to follow, he wondered what the hell he was doing.

***

Valjean’s mind refused to properly process what had happened. In the morning, he left the town, and traveled in a direction that some part of his mind knew to be north (though he did not particularly care what direction it was). 

He walked all day. The sun was low in the western sky when he stopped to rest beneath a tree.

Then, a little Savoyard boy came walking past, whistling a tune and throwing a coin in the air.

The coin fell to the ground.

Without a single thought, Valjean put his foot over it.

“Sir? My money?”

No response. Valjean continued to stare into the distance. 

“Hello? Sir? My name is Petit-Gervais, sir. Could you please give me back my money?”

Valjean was silent. He barely perceived the child’s presence, his mind was in such disarray.

***

The carriage ride to the boy’s grandfather’s home was silent. It was the kind of silence that one could cut with a knife. There were unanswered questions in the minds of both men, and an unspoken understanding that those questions would not be answered even if asked. 

They took the near-dead boy to his grandfather’s house, laid him on the doorstep and rang the bell. When a servant came to the door, Javert gave a laconic explanation, and left. 

When they got back in the carriage, Valjean spoke. “I am sorry— but— I have one more favour to ask of you. Before you arrest me— let me say goodbye to Cosette. You know where I live. You do not have to grant it, I know, I have overstayed my freedom—”

Javert did not wait for Valjean to finish his apologetic ramble. “Driver! One more detour. Take us to Rue de l’Homme-Armé, number seven.”

The driver obeyed. They arrived. Valjean, the absolute enigma, hesitated to exit the fiacre.

Javert gestured to the door. “Go on! Say goodbye to the girl.” Valjean still looked strangely concerned. Javert sighed. “I will wait for you here.”

Valjean went inside, reacting to the statement in a way that could only be described as _reassured_ , despite how ridiculous that seemed. But the statement had been a lie.

Javert exited the fiacre, paid the driver, and walked away. 

***

The child continued to cry for his money— and Valjean continued to be barely aware of him, and not at all aware that he was holding down the money. Eventually, he yelled at the child to leave, to quit this— and he did, went running down the path as fast as he could, crying.

Then, Valjean lifted his foot— and all of a sudden, the fact of what he had done came crashing down over him.

He picked up the coin.

“Petit-Gervais!” he called, in the general direction the child had gone.

No answer.

He ran, attempting to follow the child. “Petit-Gervais?!” he called again.

No answer. He tried again, again, again— all to no avail. The child was gone, and Valjean had stolen his coin.

Valjean collapsed on the path. _Oh God, what had he done?!_

***

Javert did not think about where he was going; he trusted his legs to carry him. Instead, his mind was occupied with the events that had just transpired. 

(Had he not been so preoccupied, he might have noticed the sound of careful footsteps a distance behind him, or spotted a shadow following— but he was, and therefore, did not.)

He could go back, arrest Valjean— but… he could not. 

The events of the barricades had upturned his worldview. He owed his life to a convict. How could a convict be so merciful, spare the man who would have arrested him, when Javert’s ideology depended on the idea that people could not change?

***

Valjean sat there, uselessly, in the middle of the dirt track. His mind was in an utter state of turmoil. The magnitude of the Bishop’s actions, and that of his own (in an exactly opposite direction), were finally catching up with him. 

And he cried, for the first time in nineteen years. He wept. 

Myriel’s mercy had gone entirely against what Valjean thought the world to be. How could someone be so kind and caring to a man such as Valjean? —And how could Valjean dareto do what he had just done, to steal from an innocent, after that kindness— after his soul had been bought for God? Could he ever be forgiven?

***

There were two possibilities, two things Javert could choose to do. To arrest Valjean, or to release him. 

And the choice terrified Javert.

The man Javert had been only hours previously would have chosen the former without thought— after all, it was the way of the law— but now, an irreversible change had taken place inside him. He owed Valjean his life— and Valjean was a good man— and Javert was beginning to doubt everything he had ever stood for. Perhaps… there was a higher authority than the law.

And yet, how could he continue on, if everything he had ever known was a lie?

***

There were two possibilities, two things Valjean could choose to do. To continue down the path of evil, or to change himself completely and do only good. 

And the choice terrified Valjean.

To the man the bagne had made him, the former would be the easier option, to be sure. He had stolen from this child— he was a fugitive once more— what was the point in doing good, if he would be running anyway? And yet— and yet— he could not. He was incapable of doing such evil, he could not betray the Bishop further. That man had given Valjean such inconceivable mercy; Valjean’s soul belonged to God now; he could not spit in God’s face by taking the path of evil.

And yet, how could he continue on morally, if the world despised him?

***

Javert held his head in his hands. The dilemma consumed him. What could he do? 

All of a sudden, he had an idea. But first— he turned from the parapet and went into the police station.

A night-shift worker greeted Javert. He gave no acknowledgement; he went to his desk, and began to write. A list of suggestions for reform— things he had noted as problems over the course of his career, but never mentioned out loud, so as not to rock the boat. But what was the point of trying to keep his job _now?_

He signed his name, his rank, the date and time. He sealed the letter and left it for his superiors. Then, just as abruptly as he had entered, he left the building.

Javert walked mindlessly, his eyes empty, his mind broken. He reached the same parapet he had been standing at before. He stared into the distance, looked down to the water, looked up to the starless midnight sky.

Then, Javert climbed onto the parapet.

***

The dilemma consumed Valjean. What could he do? 

He retrieved the yellow passport from his rucksack, and contemplated it.

This document was the cause of all his strife.

Were he not a convict, he would be capable of transforming his world, following the Bishop’s advice. But he _was_ a convict— and nobody would ever trust him enough to let him help, to let him do good deeds, even if he had any idea _what_ he could do.

After minutes of staring at it, Valjean crushed the paper, and shoved it back into his rucksack. And then, he began to walk.

He mindlessly walked along the northward road, eyes glazed over. Time and distance and all things were lost to his perception as he walked. Had anyone seen him, they would have described him as a broken man. After an indeterminate length of time (hours? days? even longer?), he reached a certain town.

And it just so happened that on the outskirts of this town, right where Valjean was arriving, a house was on fire.

***

Javert refused to think about what he was doing as he climbed up onto the parapet. Thought would only lead to cowardice. There was nothing else for him to do. It was him or Valjean, and Valjean deserved to live.

He did not look behind himself as he stood on the parapet. He had to suppress all doubt, prevent any possibility of changing his mind. But if he had looked behind him, he might have seen a familiarly-shaped shadow in a nearby alleyway… 

And then, Javert hurled himself forth towards the Seine. 

***

Valjean saw the burning house, and heard the cacophony of yelling from various townspeople— and then, one utterance among them all suddenly stood out to him: a woman crying that there were children trapped inside the house. 

Valjean barely thought as he rushed into the building. Perhaps this was how he would die. But it was the only thing he could do. Valjean’s life was worth nothing now— and the children deserved to live. 

***

As the reader most likely already understands, the mysterious figure following Javert had been Valjean all along— and now, this Valjean rushed forward, barely thinking, even less understanding, but motivated by pure instinct. He could not let Javert die. 

He took the same leap as Javert had made mere seconds before, dived directly into the river—

***

Fire. Burning heat. Blinding light all around. Smoke in Valjean’s lungs. Valjean was faintly aware that something on his person may have caught alight. But that was of no matter— where were the children?— he had to find the children— 

And then, Valjean found them. They were both either unconscious or dead, but he did not bother to check which— he could not waste the time— he picked the children up easily— where was the exit?

A moment of panic— the exit— where was it— he would burn— but then he saw— moved towards— and suddenly, he was out of the house. He stumbled, fell to his knees, somehow managed not to drop the children on their heads, placed them down as gently as possible— and promptly fell to all fours, coughing helplessly. Someone moved the children out of Valjean’s view— and while he was incapacitated, they must have received medical attention and been found to be merely unconscious, because the next thing he knew, people were cheering.

***

Water. Chaotic turbulence. Everything dark as ink. Polluted water in Valjean’s mouth. Which way was up— Oh God, Valjean could not see a thing— where was Javert?— he had to find Javert— 

And then, Valjean found the surface— and saw a button, glinting in the moonlight, not too far off— a button on Javert’s greatcoat— Javert’s arm— Valjean grabbed on, wrapped his arms around Javert’s limp body— but they were still somewhere in the middle of the Seine— where was the edge— 

A moment of panic— the edge— where was it— they would drown— but then he saw— tried to swim, using that skill that had allowed him to complete the Orion escape all those years ago— he was holding onto a solid surface— pulled himself and Javert up— and suddenly, they were out of the river. They were on a stone platform, barely above water level in the river’s rain-swollen state, with stairs back up to the quay. Valjean slumped against the stone wall, with Javert sprawled across his lap, and tried to catch his breath. Wait— was Javert breathing— was he— oh God, he wasn’t breathing— 

Then, Valjean remembered a technique of resuscitation he had witnessed in Toulon once or twice, a way that a man without breath or heartbeat could be revived. It was not perfectly reliable— but it was the best Valjean had— and he could not let Javert die— 

Valjean applied pressure to Javert’s chest— gave a few thrusts— then leant down, put his own mouth to Javert’s, forced air into his lungs. More thrusts— another breath— the process repeated, a rhythm developed— Valjean did not know whether it was working, but he could not stop— 

And then, Javert lurched to life, expelling river water from his lungs and stomach all over the ground.

He did not regain consciousness; when he was done, he was still limp in Valjean’s arms— but his heart was beating, and he was breathing, and he was alive. Valjean bowed his head, silently thanking God. 

***

Valjean was finally able to breathe without coughing violently. The people of the town were not yet focused on him, more so on the children, so, in the absence of scrutiny, he looked inside the charred rucksack that had slid off his arm. The silver was still inside— but his yellow passport was not. It must have burnt to ashes. 

Valjean felt an indescribable mix of emotions at this, and he had very little time to process which emotion was his true reaction, before— 

A man was helping him up. “Monsieur! You saved my son and daughter; you are a hero! What is your name?”

***

Valjean walked along the streets of Paris, carrying Javert in his arms. He was not young, but he was still strong enough to do this. 

He knew a way to his residence on the Rue de l’Homme-Armé that would be seen by practically nobody, especially at this hour of the night, and he was following it. Javert was still not conscious, and Valjean knew not where the Inspector lived— moreover, did not want to risk leaving him alone— so bringing him to Valjean’s home was the only option. He only hoped that when Javert woke, the man would not hold this against Valjean.

... _If_ Javert woke, he corrected himself. God willing, he would, but one could never be sure of these things.

***

“...Monsieur? What is your name?”

Valjean jerked back to reality, realising he had not answered the man’s question. “Ah—” he shook his head in apology, “my name is, Jean—”

It all so abruptly occurred to him. His papers were burnt, he did not have to use his real name, he _should_ not use his real name in fact— he could start a new life— suddenly, he remembered a Bible story—

“...Madeleine. Jean Madeleine.”

“Well, M. Madeleine, you have done the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer a great service! I’m sure many of the people here would gladly give you a place to stay free of charge as long as you need, for a man as heroic as you have proved to be!”

Valjean, for a moment, dared to hope. Perhaps now he could follow the Bishop’s guidance, become a good man. 

He smiled.

_He could start a new life._

***

Valjean, having managed to climb the stairs with Javert in his arms, entered his own bedroom, and set Javert down on the floor. He undressed the unconscious man to his underclothes— Javert would need to be washed of the river’s filth at some point, as would his clothing, but Toussaint was asleep at this hour, and if Valjean was to collect water for a bath, he would have to leave Javert alone for longer than he was prepared to do. This would have to do, for now. 

Valjean lifted Javert once more, and placed him on the bed. Valjean would sleep in the armchair tonight. 

But before he sat, he knelt at the bedside, in prayer.

_Please, God, allow Javert to start a new life._


	2. cover art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For derailment day, I drew art for this fic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on tumblr [here](https://voidify-artblog.tumblr.com/post/185425577021/happy-derailment-day-heres-an-illustration) and on dA [here](https://www.deviantart.com/voidify/art/but-i-have-seen-the-same-800764372)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note there's a bit of symbolism going on here with the colours— in general, it's the exact same blue-orange contrast I always use with soliloquy parallel art, but here, I have this thing where both panels have one part contrasting with the overall temperature. In Valjean's panel, the cool-grey candlesticks and coin and tears; in Javert's, the red of Valjean's uniform and skin. And in both of these cases, the contrasting bit is relevant to the crisis going on, in more than one way.


End file.
